Small Axe Books

The fumes get to me so I decide to move outside. I walk around towards the back of the house, trying to clear the stench of burning plastic from my nostrils. I can still watch the fire though a row of picture windows that runs along the rear of the house. I still smell it and I worry briefly about brain cells popping. Whatever, I’ll grow new ones.

I just spayed most of the house with gasoline and set the living room on fire. I’d wanted to watch from the inside as long as I could, but it turns out I can’t stomach the smell of suburban affluence melting. Even in death, this cursed house is repulsive.

It’s fun to watch though, the furniture looks like it’s transmogrifying into abstract art and the carpet is peeling away like skin on a third degree burn victim. I can still see most of this from outside, but smoke gets in the way. I keep backing up as heat builds and builds. I’m wondering if the windows will shatter or liquefy or something. It’s frustrating. I want to see as much of the destruction as possible but I don’t want to become part of the damage.

I think I can hear someone screaming inside. I wonder about my parents. Will they asphyxiate or will they burn to death? I hope they burn. I look at them as two household appliances set to fry. My mom’s a broken microwave, my dad’s a flat screen TV. They weren’t horrible; I might have more sympathy for them if they were really bad. It’s just time to throw them out.

It’s time to throw everything in a pile and burn it. Like right before we moved to this pit, when we cleaned out the basement of the old house, dragged all the junk into the backyard. My dad burned the first big pile without me; he said the flames reached over 25 feet tall. I was sorry to have missed it at the time, but this fire more than makes up for it.

I watch the flames for a few more seconds and then turn around, walk though the backyard, step into the woods behind my burning house. It’s kind of dark out but I make my way through without much hassle. I can still move through wilderness without getting scratched up, despite not having much practice lately. I push my way through some bushes out into the street and continue walking down the side of the road until I see my friend’s car, right about where I told him to meet me. I get in and we start the long drive out west.

I didn’t tell him anything about what I just did, but as we leave the subdivision he says, “I wonder what that smoke’s about, do you think a house caught fire or something?”

“Maybe,” I reply, “maybe.”